


(I'm) In waves of interference.

by SovereignChicken



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Light at the end of the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-04-16 12:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SovereignChicken/pseuds/SovereignChicken
Summary: The first time Clarke dies, she’s five.You’re five and a half.You’ve known each other since she held your hand under the table because she was scared after her parents dropped her off on the first day of pre-k.You were a little older and taller and you did your best to reassure her that she would be okay.You were scared too and you told her as much and she smiled at you and gripped your hand a little tighter and you didn’t let go of each other the whole first day.You were fast friends.Best friends.And something in you knew this was bigger than anything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Can I give you babies some advice? Those that are in University and approaching 'adult life'? 
> 
> Work/Life balance. That's it. That's the advice. Demand it. Do not live to work. Work to live.
> 
> For the rest of you suffering 'adults', raise a glass to daily existential crises and building up the courage to seek better. We all deserve it.
> 
> Here are some words I managed to scratch out.

The first time Clarke dies, she’s five.

You’re five and a half.

You’ve known each other since she held your hand under the table because she was scared after her parents dropped her off on the first day of pre-k.

You were a little older and taller and you did your best to reassure her that she would be okay.

You were scared too and you told her as much and she smiled at you and gripped your hand a little tighter and you didn’t let go of each other the whole first day.

You were fast friends.

Best friends.

And something in you knew this was bigger than anything.

She knew too.

She told you as much, over cookies.

She pointed to her heart and told you that that’s where she kept you when she went home.

And you felt it.

But Clarke Griffin dies at age five.

And you at age five and a half, know it but don’t understand it.

She drowns in the Griffin’s swimming pool.

You hear it in hushed whispers.

But mostly you hear it in the way that your heart used to beat for her life and now it sputters for her loss.

Your parents tell you she’s gone away on a trip.

But you know it and you know it.

But you don’t understand it.

You’re angry, so angry.

And the hushed whispers turn into realizations that you know and attempts at reassurances.

Nothing works.

They seek help.

Therapy.

And nothing works.

You’re supposed to have moved on by now.

Everybody can’t understand why you haven’t.

It’s been months but you feel every second of it.

Your parents are at a loss.

All you do is sit and rock and you haven’t been in school since.

They’re talking medication when you hear them one day and something in you finally snaps.

It’s been building and boiling and rising and expanding and you run out into the yard in a sheer panic.

And you scream.

Scream so loud that the world turns in on itself to block your grief.

It folds and it squirms but it’s no match for the cry of your heart.

When you can think again, it’s a Monday morning and Clarke Griffin is walked into the classroom by her mother and father.

She’s clinging and worried and it’s just like the first time.

But she’s even more beautiful than in your memory and your heart just can’t take it.

You pass out cold on the floor.

When you come to, everyone is hovering over you and worried voices are calling your name.

But she’s there.

Right in front of you.

Real.

Face scrunched up and so real.

You can see her mom behind her pulling her out of the way.

Trying to get to you.

To help you.

You can hear her tell your teacher that she’s a doctor.

But you don’t want her help.

You want the hand that slips into yours and the girl that frowns at you determinedly and tells you clearly and bravely, “You’re going to be okay, Lexa.”

And what choice do you have when she tells you so.

Your hand clenches tightly around Clarke’s as her mother checks you over and you don’t even realize that your parents have been called until they come into your view, worried.

Clarke’s mother suggests they take you home for some good old rest and hydration but you just won’t let go of Clarke’s hand and she won’t let go of yours.

When coaxing fails, you all go home together.

You and Clarke and your respective parents in tow.

And you hold her hand the whole day.

When you really think about it days later, you try to rationalize it.

It was probably a weird dream.

Because Clarke is here and real and you see her every day at school.

A weird de ja vu dream about a girl you hadn’t met.

It’s the only thing you can think of.

And the more you see her the less you think of it.

You’re inseparable.

Your parents have resigned themselves to the fact but you know they enjoy each other’s company too.

But you and Clarke are everything.

You see her almost every day and when you don’t all you do is think of her.

Your parents have begrudgingly granted you phone privileges and you abuse them severely with how much you talk to her.

But she’s here and she’s real and your friendship feels so big.

But your great big world ends all too soon because Clarke dies a second time at age seven.

You’re in the second grade.

You’d broken your arm jumping off the swing in the playground in an attempt to show off.

She’d been there.

She’d held your uninjured hand as you were taken to the hospital and she’d held it the entire day you came back to school with a fresh cast.

Your classmates had clamoured around to sign it but you had refused because you wanted Clarke to sign it first.

She’d given you a look then.

A look that was so much bigger than you could comprehend and you’d given her the biggest smile your thumping heart would allow you.

You knew her parents had bought her new pens to draw with because she was your best friend and she had told you so.

And she had played her fingers along the skin on the edge of your cast and promised to bring them the next day so she could draw on your cast.

You’d simply kissed the side of her head like you’d seen your dad do to your mom and she had giggled gleefully.

But she doesn’t show up.

And you know it and know it.

You wake up crying and your parents somehow manage to comfort you back to a restless sleep and when you get to class the next morning you just know that she won’t be there.

But still you hope and you hope.

You don’t talk the whole day and when you get off the bus and home, your parents are grim and you feel it in the way that you can’t breathe.

You hear their whispers as they debate telling you and when your father comes in to your room to find you curled up and crying he realizes when you can’t stop crying that you somehow found out.

His comfort is useless in the face of your discomfort, consolation pointless as you’re inconsolable.

You find out later that it was a car accident.

The Griffin’s dog had escaped when her father opened the door to take out the trash and Clarke had taken off after him without a thought.

The new neighbour from the street over had swerved to avoid the dog but hit the girl instead.

It was instant.

Your parents realize faster than the last time that you’re not going to get better.

Maybe because you’ve been inseparable for three years.

Four if you count the last life.

And you’re beginning to wonder if you should.

You’d dismissed it because Clarke was real and alive but now that she’s not all you do is think.

And one not so special day a few days after your parents resign themselves to the fact that you won’t speak and switch you to home school, the phone rings.

And somehow you know who’s on the other line.

And you listen to you mother say that she understands and wishes them the best with their new start in a different state and you burrow into the living room carpet and scream so loudly that you hear your mom drop her phone in the other room and you hear the sound of the world crumpling in on itself and you’re four and a half again and Clarke Griffin is nervous about her first day of pre-k.

Your heart drops through your stomach as you process her real and whole.

You try to control your breathing and you look away when her eyes find yours.

But she comes to you anyway.

She sits by your side as you try desperately to understand why this is happening again.

“I’m Clarke.” She says gently. “What’s your name?”

“Lexa.” You manage.

Somehow.

Someway.

“Lexa.” She tastes.

She lays a hand on yours and you shiver.

She’s dead twice over but she’s warm and here and you can’t make sense of it.

“It’s okay if you’re scared.” You look up at her, curious.

“I am too.” She confesses.

Your mouth falls open..Does she..does she remember?

“My mom and dad said that I shouldn’t be afraid ‘cause I’m going to make a bunch of new friends and learn new stuff.”

Oh.

She doesn’t.

“Do you want to be friends, Lexa?”

And do you have a choice in all this?

You manage a nod but can’t bring yourself to speak.

But she doesn’t seem to mind.

She sits by you all day and she talks to you with no expectation of a reply.

“You don’t like talking do you?”

But you do.

You did.

Full of reassurances and guidance in her first life and bravado and adventure in her second.

But in this you find yourself quiet.

Worried.

You count the days.

And when you get to the day of her first death, nothing happens and when your get to the day of her second death nothing happens and so you wait.

You don’t talk much.

She doesn’t mind.

She holds your hand.

You tell her to watch out.

On the monkey bars, on the stairs, in the parking lot.

And she laughs along at how paranoid you are but promises to be careful.

You remind her that pools can be dangerous and that she should always look both ways when she crosses the street and she’s serious as she agrees and she never steps foot in their pool despite her parents’ coaxing.

Second grade gives way to third and you’re wary of everything and everyone around you.

The friends you made in your past lives are not friends anymore.

Instead they whisper about how weird you are and how afraid you are of everything.

Clarke shushes them and refuses to speak to those who tease and as a consequence she gets called weird too.

She does manage to make a few friends, Octavia and Raven namely but they never quite become your friends.

You have one friend and her name is Clarke Griffin and you are doing everything in your power to keep her alive.

But third grade gives way into fourth and she makes you laugh more days than not and you can’t help but talk more.

The sparkle in her eyes when you do is radiant and you make your home and your life in it.

Clarke gets more beautiful and vivacious by the day but despite the attention she attracts she always puts you first.

You make friends of your own as well.

Anya who is older and plays basketball with you in the after school club you join at the end of fifth grade and Lincoln who lives in your neighbourhood and is homeschooled.

It feels like your world is expanding and whole and wonderful.

You realize as you straddle fifth and sixth grade during an idyllic summer with Clarke which is spent pretending to be warriors in your respective backyards that you’re different.

Not in a bad way..just different.

From your classmates at least.

The boys pretend not to like the girls but they do and obviously so.

The girls don’t bother pretending and there are notes passed and giggles and daydreams.

But you..you don’t daydream about the boys you go to school with.

Not Bellamy, Octavia’s older brother whose voice has dropped much to the delight of your classmates and consternation of Octavia.

Not Atom who Octavia gushes over and definitely not Finn who Raven has taken a liking to and yet finds every excuse to talk to Clarke.

No you..you fantasize about Clarke.

You fantasize about holding her hand and talking about nothing.

Playing in the yard and braiding her hair.

Getting her excited about the books you’re reading and watching her draw.

And in that idyllic summer, that’s all you do.

But you want more.

An endless amount of what you do every single day with her.

And it’s a confusing feeling because you have her and yet you want her.

When Raven talks about her first kiss with Finn, you think you understand at least a little bit of what you want.

Clarke for the most part is unreadable.

She never really gushes over boys the way Raven and Octavia do and you don’t understand why.

She’s unreadable in a way you’ve never seen her.

And naturally, you agonize over it.

Every time Finn talks to her you rage and rage.

But she never reacts.

And you don’t understand it.

She’s nervous on Valentine’s day in the sixth grade and you wonder if she likes someone.

But it’s you she gifts a heart to and you do the same.

It’s always been this way.

Every birthday.

Every holiday.

And yes, every Valentine’s day.

And you never really thought much of it but she’s nervous as she gives you your gifts and she presses a kiss to your cheek and another to your forehead and she asks you if you’ve ever thought about the future.

You can hardly manage to speak, the kiss having sent you into a daze but it seems like she’s put thought into the subject as she continues unbidden.

She talks about living together and always being friends and travelling with you and growing old with you and it hits you that she’s different.

Like you.

It’s not bad.

It’s not good either.

It just is.

And there is something so very wonderful about the knowledge you now possess.

It’s calming.

And quite possibly the only thing that keeps you within gravity’s pull when she presses a slow lingering kiss to close to the corner of your mouth and bids you a shy goodbye.

It frees you.

Her kiss frees you.

From thought, from worries, from everything.

You read the card she gave you as you take the bus home and you take the loopily written request more seriously that you have anything before.

Because she wants to be your first kiss and she wants you to be hers.

You pedal eagerly to meet her at the park, per her written request, once you get home and grab your bike and you think about the days you spent there with her.

From swinging as second graders as you cautioned her not to swing too high to swinging this past summer as almost sixth graders as you looked around half daring anyone to say anything about the big kids playing on the swing.

You wait for her on the swing, naturally.

Nervous.

Also naturally.

And when the pang hits your chest, you’re unprepared.

But it’s raw and painful and you struggle to breathe, attracting the attention of a few adults in the vicinity.

You don’t place it, not at first.

You wonder if you’re having some sort of heart problem like that one college basketball player you saw a documentary on who collapsed on the court.

Maybe it’s heartburn.

After all you did eat your lunch too fast.

You think about how worried Clarke will be if she...

Clarke.

And just like that, you remember.

What you had no right to forget.

How easy it is to lose Clarke.

How hard it is to lose Clarke.

Because that’s what this is.

In all of your bliss you’d been foolish enough to forget that you’ve lost her twice.

You’d forgotten.

And this is your punishment.

As the adults around you debate calling an ambulance, you haul yourself to your feet.

It’s all a blur but you make it home.

There’s no point in trying to find Clarke or her parents.

It’s too late.

You know it.

You know it.

The story this time is that she was walking.

Simply walking on the sidewalk.

Flowers in hand and a small smile they didn’t mention but you know that was there.

And there was an accident across the street.

Road rage they called it.

The thing that possessed two men who’d merely dinged each other’s cars during a lane change to argue with each other and pull guns on each other.

They’d missed in their attempts.

And there was an old man who was released to go home that day after treatment for a bullet that grazed his arm and young girl who was released to the morgue that day for bullet that grazed her lungs.

And you can’t stop thinking about the kiss to the corner of you mouth that she gave you earlier that day.

The kiss that gave you life and in turn gifted her death.

And you blame yourself and you hate yourself.

Your anger carries you through months of existence.

Because you can’t call it living.

It’s mere existence.

Everyone tells you over and over that it isn’t your fault.

Homeschool and therapy are quick to come.

And for months, nothing means anything.

Not in the face of the hate you feel for yourself.

But one day something breaks.

Your therapist suddenly makes sense.

Everyone does.

It’s not your fault.

But your breakthrough is short-lived.

But it’s just long enough for your grief to crack through.

And crack through it does.

You howl in agony on your bedroom floor.

And the world folds and turns in on itself in the wake of your grief.

And when the world is no longer askew, you’re in a pre-k classroom and Clarke Griffin walks in the door accompanied by her parents.

And you hate yourself when your eyes meet hers.

So you turn away.

And you ignore her when she shyly attempts to talk to you.

That day and the next and the next and the next.

But she’s persistent and you hate yourself more.

And you know what you have to do.

You have to remove yourself from the picture.

And so you do.

It’s not easy.

It takes repeated begging and pleading over weeks and weeks before your parents let you switch schools.

And you pretend that you don’t see the way Clarke looks at you on the very last day that you walk out of that pre-k classroom.

Because she’ll forget you soon.

And everything will be okay.

It has to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wonder if she’s okay.
> 
> If she’s happy.
> 
> If she thinks about you.
> 
> But mostly you try not to think of her.
> 
> You think this way, she’ll get to live.
> 
> And this way, you’ll get to survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough.

Life without Clarke is..odd.

You’ve never experienced it.

It’s lonely.

You don’t feel as inclined to interact with your classmates.

You still meet Anya in the basketball club and you still meet Lincoln in your neighbourhood and it’s objectively okay.

You’re the quiet kid who’s really smart and that’s okay with you.

You miss her.

So much.

It’s strange because she doesn’t exist in your world and sometimes you wonder if you imagined her.

But.

You certainly haven’t forgotten losing her.

Not again.

You wonder if she’s okay.

If she’s happy.

If she thinks about you.

But mostly you try not to think of her.

You think this way, she’ll get to live.

And this way, you’ll get to survive.

So you trudge on through the years.

And it’s okay.

You meet Costia when you’re thirteen.

You’re older than you’ve ever been and it’s scary because you’ve lived and lived but you don’t know what comes next.

Your body is changing and your life is changing and soon you’ll be in high school and you feel so old but you’re so very young.

Costia is quiet.

Like you.

Well.

Like you now.

She’s studious and goal oriented and it shocks you in the worst way.

Because is all the living and living, you never really thought about the future.

You were constantly trying to ensure the present lasted as long as possible and now you’re adrift in possibility.

She’s a classically trained pianist and all she lives and breathes is music.

She invites you to one of her recitals and as she plays you can see her future.

So clear and defined.

So destined.

But you can’t see yours.

Because you’re older than you’ve ever been and so is Clarke.

And you don’t know what that means.

You call Clarke on a Monday.

Her number is more familiar from a past life than yours in this life.

You know both her mom and dad won’t be back from work yet and she’ll likely just have gotten home from school much like yourself.

That is if her parents have the same job and Clarke has the same routines.

The routines she had a year ago when she was twelve.

The routines she had nine years ago when she was twelve.

Nine years.

You haven’t seen or spoken to her in nine years.

You almost throw up when it hits you.

But the phone is ringing and your hands are clammy and you have to pull it together.

It rings and rings and rings, and maybe it’s for the best.

You’re not sure what you’re looking for anyway.

She’s probably happy and alive and..

“Hello?”

You promptly drop the phone.

Because it’s her.

And her voice is raspy.

Raspy like when she’d call you late at night and you’d talk about everything and nothing.

Raspy like when she would cheer for you at your basketball games and she’d congratulate you after.

Raspy like the day she talked about the future and asked you to meet her at the park and she never made it.

You scramble to pick it up as she says hello again.

She’s breathless like she just ran over to pick up the phone. There’s young voices in the background and you think that you can pick out Raven yelling.

On an afternoon like this, she’d be on the phone with you. Or she’d be at yours successfully convincing you to put off your homework for one more hour. Or you’d be at hers rifling through the fridge

that was always stocked to the brim.

“Hello.” You croak out weakly.

“Oh good!” She exclaims, “Thought I missed you! We were in the pool.”

Your heart drops.

“Umm yeah..so who is this? What can I do for you?”

She swims.

Of course she does.

She swims.

Now that you’re not around to stop her, there’s likely plenty of things she does.

Like living.

“Hello?” She says again.

You hang up.

Costia is your first kiss.

It’s sweet but it tastes bitter and when she smiles at you, you manage to smile back.

You spend that night throwing up.

Costia is patient and kind and it’s easy to fall into dating her.

You wonder if it’s fair to her but she never complains about how guarded you are.

Never rushes you into anything.

It’s slow and it’s sweet.

You think that this is it.

This is life.

And no one can make your happiness but you.

So you try and try.

Because the people in your life now deserve it.

Middle school gives way into high school and as your luck would have it, the guidance counselors are attentive.

“What do you want Lexa?”

What do you want?

What do you want?

High school also brings diversity.

New people.

New interests.

And Costia makes friends easily.

She’s less serious but no less driven.

She’s outgoing in a way she’s never been and you’re painfully aware that you’re not.

You’re painfully aware that trying to be happy only half worked.

And Costia deserves better.

It’s been eleven years since you saw Clarke and two since you last spoke to her if the short phone conversation counted for anything.

It counted for everything.

But maybe you need more.

Maybe you need another eleven years.

But you’re here and now and so you let Costia go.

Maybe in eleven years you’ll be ready for someone else.

Something else.

She’s understanding.

As always.

“I expected it sooner.” She laughs, eyes wet but accepting.

She grips at your hand and you revel in the beautiful contrast of your skin and hers.

But the contrast in your path and hers is too much to bear.

And you think she knows it as well.

“Don’t be a stranger.” She whispers as she kisses your cheek gently.

“What do you want Lexa?” again comes the question from your guidance counselor.

Again and again.

What do you want?

You’ll decide in three years.

Unfortunately, the counselors at your school really want to guide you and an aptitude test says you’d fit well in the military.

Ironic perhaps given that you can’t stop warring against yourself.

But despite your inner turmoil, you can’t quite break out of your apathetic haze.

The first lazy Saturday of December finds you sleeping in until you’re waking up in a half scream and a half sweat.

You know this feeling.

The pain radiating all over your body is new but the feeling of loss is the same.

You try to stumble out of bed unsure of a destination and you find yourself on the floor, heaving and crying.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not when you were gone. Not when you were..

God.

You dry heave for what feels like hours before you find the strength to pull yourself back into bed.

You cry yourself in and out of sleep and your parents leave you be assuming you’re exhausted after the previous night’s basketball game.

On Sunday you pull yourself out of bed and drag yourself out of the house.

You walk and you walk and you walk until you reach the house you spent so many days at and you turn back around and walk home when you find that it looks the same.

On Monday, there are whispers at the school.

A girl in your school district who went to Arkadia high school died on Saturday.

Some of the people at your high school are visibly upset having gone to middle school with her.

You overhear a conversation about a memorial the next weekend.

And despite the fact that you don’t know her in this life, you go.

Of course you do.

You’re a glutton for punishment.

And you feel like you deserve it.

For thinking you had any sort of control.

For thinking for a second that Clarke would be okay.

For thinking that your life wasn’t a cruel joke.

For thinking that if you stayed away, something would change.

There’s a light snow on the grounds of the cemetery and you’re late for the service because you talked yourself into and out of it.

In circles and circles.

You have to be here.

You can’t be here.

You can’t escape the tug in your heart.

You can’t..

You’re in time to catch Abby’s words about her daughter and you can’t help but sob where you stand.

There’s a picture on her coffin and in it she’s older than you’ve ever seen her and different in a way that you can’t quite place.

There are faces you recognize and faces you don’t and it feels like a terrible dream.

You see Raven clutching at Octavia and your heart aches for them.

You stay.

You stay because you can’t move.

You’re not sure why but you stand there in the cold for hours and you just look at the picture on her coffin.

“You knew her?” A voice rasps, raw with a grief you can’t bear to imagine.

You turn to face Clarke’s mother.

You remember the way she’d insist you call her Abby with a glint in her eye that you knew meant she liked how polite you were.

You remember her picking up the phone despite half-asleep protests on Clarke’s end and yours, reminding you both that you’d see each other tomorrow.

Always tomorrow.

But you don’t remember Abby ever looking like this.

“Dr. Griffin..” You blurt in a half-daze wondering how to answer her.

Her head snaps up at your voice and she regards you quietly.

“Yes..I did.” You answer.

She watches you for a long moment before she turns her attention back to the coffin.

She smiles mirthlessly and shakes her head, “She was never a happy kid, you know.”

You frown.

“When she was really young, yes but something changed. She became more distant...” She trails off and shakes her head.

She shakes her head again and again.

“I..I never really knew her.” She breathes, finally. “No one did. Not even Jake before he died.”

Her words come as a strong wave and you struggle to surface in the onslaught.

You think of Jake, wiggling his brows as he challenged you and Clarke to see who could clear the table the fastest.

You think of him nudging you out of the door to the backyard after an excited Clarke and his chuckle as he told you that you didn’t need to worry so much about everything.

And then you try to imagine a Clarke who doesn’t radiate joy and sunshine and you can’t.

You can’t.

You don’t know anything about this Clarke.

When did her father die?

Why was she unhappy?

How did she die?

You throw up.

Right there where you stand.

Abby keeps her eyes trained on the picture but her hand reaches out to rub your back as you retch.

When you recover somewhat, you straighten up and take a deep breath.

“I have to go.” You manage to croak.

Abby simply nods and you take one last look at the picture of Clarke.

This Clarke.

And then you turn away.

“Wait!” Abby calls.

You stop but don’t look back.

“What’s your name?”

“Lexa.” You call back instinctively and you think it’s lost in the wind that seems to have suddenly picked up.

But then you hear her after a silence in a tone laced with heaviness and queries, “That was the name of her diary.”

You walk away.

The snow had started falling at some point during your interaction with Abby and now it’s thick and visibility is poor as you trod along.

An early frost, you had heard on the radio as you drove over and you think it’s fitting for the occasion.

You turn back to take a last look at Abby and can barely distinguish her.

A gray mass against the white that engulfs and you worry about her in the weather but your breathing is getting shallower and shallower.

You’re practically trying to climb your way as you trudge along and when did it get this bad?

You see her face.

Everywhere.

As you hike out of the holes you sink into.

You’re not sure that you’re moving forward but your frustration is building and building.

Because you don’t see the Clarke you knew eleven years ago and change and change and change.

You see the one her mother talks about.

And you’re frustrated and you’re angry.

So angry.

You wail against the wailing wind and cry out as the snow falls silently around you and you find yourself unable to take a step further as you descend into sobs and snow and sobs.

And you cry and cry and you roar and howl into the wind and the world folds and bends into itself and you wake as you do in a pre-k classroom.

Clarke Griffin walks into the classroom, tiny hands gripping at the hands of her parents.

She bites her lips anxiously as she looks around and you hate her.

You could never.

But you’re so so angry at her.

For dying over and over and leaving you stuck and alone in a torturous loop.

You put your head down and will it away but she comes to you the way she always does and wish so desperately she wouldn’t and you’re angry and angry and angry.

You feel her warmth.

Feel her hand gently rub your back and you hear her voice, low and unsure. “Are you okay?”

You flinch.

Pull away and meet her wide eyes as her hand hovers in the air where you sat.

“Leave me alone.” You hiss.

Young and impetuous.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Her face scrunches up in confusion and then hurt and a small part of you enjoys causing her pain.

You stand and move to the next table where you sit alone and speak to anyone.

You can feel her hesitant glances your way and she doesn’t talk to anyone either.

You don’t care.

You don’t care.

Not when you have another fifteen-plus years before you lose her again.

You have all the time in the world to make up with her, befriend her, and get just content enough to lose her.

You decline to meet her eyes as you get picked up by your parents and pretend that it doesn’t hurt you to be so close after so many years and not reach out to her.

You feel it before you ever get home.

Unbearable pain.

You can’t breathe.

“Lexa!” Your mother calls out in alarm as you double over in the car seat.

It’s not possible.

She can’t be..but she is and you know it and you know it.

It doesn’t make sense.

And God.

You don’t know what the point of anything is when it feels like this.

You slump over in defeat and the world doesn’t fold and bend in response to your grief.

Darkness simply slithers and envelopes you and you hope that this means that you’re dying because you’re so very tired of surviving and it’s the only option you’ve been given over and over and over.

You don’t know how much time passes but when you regain consciousness, it’s dark.

It’s warm though and you’re not afraid.

The environment around you pulses and you can feel its curiosity.

And you can feel its truth.

And you know then that Clarke Griffin was never meant to live.

And you were never meant to meet her.

But she lived and you met her and therein lies the problem.

The pulsing around you grows erratic in bursts of contretemps and you feel like a child again as your parents argued about whether to put you in therapy.

But in a cosmic way.

You can’t offer much to the swirling around you but you can feel it or them, or whatever the preferred pronoun is for a formless entity that holds life and death in balance, considering you.

Judging you.

Deciding.

You’re not sure of time.

You’re not sure of anything.

All you know is that you feel calm.

And then you don’t.

The swirling around you stills and it feels like a decision is made.

You feel like the world is different.

And it’s sudden.

So sudden.

And the pre-k classroom is so bright.

And you meet Clarke Griffin’s eyes.

And she clutches at her parent’s hands.

And your breath hitches.

And your heart starts up an odd beat.

But you don’t look away.

When she cautiously approaches, nervous in the face of the first day of school, you reassure her and you hold her hand.

You’re not really sure why you’re back and what it all means but you know that you can’t run away from her, can’t hide.

And you can’t bear to have the image of her hurt face seared into your brain again.

So you hold her hand. And you send smiles her way.

And you worry.

Of course you do.

Death has proven to be random.

Cruel.

Non-linear.

Surprising and devastating.

You watch her but you try not to be overbearing.

You walk the fine line of making sure she’s okay but not stifling her life.

After all, even when you did, you still lost her.

Life trots along and Clarke Griffin makes you happy.

Of course she does.

Even as you worry.

Even as you overthink.

You keep to yourself.

There’s no real point in getting to know anyone.

Raven has her first kiss with Finn.

Octavia has her first kiss with Atom.

And Clarke..You expect she’ll have her first kiss with you, that’s how it happened last time after all.

That’s how it would have happened anyway.

Had she not died.

But it doesn’t happen that way.

Clarke has her first kiss with Finn and she tells about it on the phone that night.

Apparently he’d ended things with Raven amicably because he’d always wanted to be with Clarke.

She bares herself to you.

Her feelings.

Her fear.

And she asks you to say something.

And you..

You don’t say anything.

As it turns out Finn had in fact not ended things amicably or at all.

And Clarke worries as you have her arm around her on the couch on a hot Saturday, that she’s ruined things with Raven.

But real life is not so cliché as to pit the two against each other and a return to friendship happens the following Sunday at Finn’s expense.

It all feels wrong to you.

Too fast.

Too strange.

But you just try to stay afloat as you live longer than you’ve ever lived with Clarke in your life.

On the first day of high school as you face the masses of students and you send her a reassuring smile, she tells you she loves you.

And you know it and know it, Because you love her too.

Of course you do.

You always have.

High school Clarke is a Clarke that you haven’t experienced before.

She’s a force to be reckoned with, in student government before you can even consistently find your way to Biology class.

To be fair, you are attending Arkadia unlike your past life in which you attended Trikru and the layout at Arkadia is confusing.

But really Clarke is just a force of nature.

You play basketball as you have in your past lives and Clarke joins the cheer-leading squad to support you.

What do you want?

The guidance counselors ask.

And you’re no more in the know of what you want to do than you were in your last life and somehow you know that ‘to follow Clarke’ will not be an acceptable answer but it’s the only answer you have.

Clarke kisses you for the first time on Halloween of your freshman year.

You’re dressed as fruit loops.

A fun inside joke for you because you’re gay and living in a loop.

She’s an angel.

And that’s not even you projecting onto her.

She’s literally dressed as an angel, halo and all.

And at the end of the night, as the ridiculous party at Bellamy’s house winds down, she kisses you.

On the front porch.

And it’s not your first kiss but it is in this life.

And it’s a kiss that sends tingles up and down your body and you know like you’ve always known, that Clarke Griffin is the one for you.

It’s never really said.

Never explicitly spelled out, but Clarke is your girlfriend from then on and you’re hers.

It seems like time speeds up now that you’re hers and she’s yours.

And you make love to her.

With her.

When you’re both sixteen and young and alive in the summer before your second to last year of high school.

And you kiss her as she cries after.

And you cry too.

And you wonder why she cries.

And you wonder if she wonders why you cry.

You pick a major at random.

Chemical Engineering.

It shuts your guidance counselors up and surely it’ll lead to something.

Clarke wants to go into International Relations.

She wants to make a change in the world.

And she’s not the only one of your classmates who makes the declaration to change the world.

But she’s certainly the only one you believe.

Junior year bleeds into senior year and you find yourself only thirty minutes away from Clarke at the respective Universities you attend.

One year bleeds into two.

Spending weekends at each other’s dorm rooms.

Spending summers together taking internships in the vicinity of each other.

Two years bleed into three.

Organizing skype dates when weekends are tougher to manage.

Spending the odd three day weekend in each other’s off campus apartments.

Three years bleed into four and into a fifth because you don’t manage to pass some of your classes on the first try and because Clarke takes on more than is possible for anyone to fit into four years.

You attend each other’s graduations and you’re both older than you’ve ever been.

Jobs lined up already with companies with names that are acronyms and she grows quiet at a celebratory dinner after both sets of your parents retire to bed and your friends...well..her friends head to

the next bar.

You sip at the last dregs of your wine and you send a smile her way.

“Do you love me?” She asks.

Quiet.

But.

So loud.

You frown.

“I do.” You answer.

You send a wink her way but she regards you seriously.

“You know, I watch other couples..” She starts.

You cock your head.

“..and they’re not like us.”

You swallow.

You put your hand over hers, where she rests it on the table.

She moves her hand away.

“I thought you’d warm up eventually. I thought you’d get out of your head.”

“Clarke?” You whisper.

Confused.

Confounded.

“I love you so much.” She sobs out.

Your heart clenches painfully, “I love you too.” You insist.

“You’re not here though.”

You shake your head.

“You never really are.”

“Clarke?” You beg. “What? Clarke..I..”

“You’re not with me and I can’t...I can’t keep giving and giving and getting nothing back from you.”

You run a hand through your hair.

Try to swallow but find your mouth dry.

“Clarke..” You say. “Clarke..” You say again. “We’ve been..we’ve been together for years..”

“No.” She simply responds. “Lexa..I’ve been with you for years..I don’t know where you’ve been.”

And just like that she stands up.

She walks away from you and you can’t pull yourself to do anything but watch.

You run it through your head over an over and you can’t find an answer other than to tell her.

And so you do.

You work up the courage, several drinks in.

Several months after the dinner.

Several thousand breakdowns later.

Almost a year into your new acronym job where you chemically engineer and really don’t care about anything besides her.

You find yourself at her door and you know.

She answers and takes a long look at you before she lets you in.

You imagine that you must not look well.

Because her lip is permanently caught between her teeth and she asks you several times if you need a glass of water.

A place to sleep.

But you shake your head no and you sit her down and you start to talk.

You tell her about the lives and the lives and the death and the death.

You tell her about the pain and the loss and beginning and beginning.

And she listens patiently and never makes you feel crazy even though as the words stream out of your mouth, you're starting to suspect that you are.

She’s quiet for a long time after you’re done and you let her process.

You don’t really know how she’ll react but you’ve been holding this in for so long.

Just over forty years of living and living and living if you’re counting.

“Lexa.” She finally rasps.

You lean in and you grab the hand that she holds out to you.

She shakes her head.

Once.

Again.

“This is what you’ve been going through?” She asks.

Eyes wide but surprisingly calm.

You nod.

“You’re worried you’ll lose me?” She whispers.

“So much.” You croak out.

“Okay.” She says.

“Okay?” You ask.

“Lexa. Look around you.”

You look around you.

Her apartment is well decorated and..

“Lexa no. I mean. Look outside you.”

Your brow furrows.

She sighs.

“Think about all the couples you see on the street. Your parents. My parents.”

You cock your head.

“Lexa.” She intones as she pulls you closer.

She kisses you softly.

So softly.

“They could lose each other at any second.”

You suck in a breath.

“They could.” She insists as she tries to meet your wandering eyes. “And you know what?”

You pause before you have to ask, “What?”

She winds her hands around your neck and your hands find a home on her waist. “What does it matter?”

She smooths your frown as it manifests on your face.

“Life should be about more than just surviving. Don’t we deserve better that?” She trails off quietly.

And it’s abrupt when it strikes you.

The time you’ve wasted on worry and anticipation of the worst.

And you hate yourself.

For all the wasted time.

For all the moments you missed.

For all the times you weren’t present.

You hate yourself.

But you let it go.

Because you both deserve better.

And you meet her eyes.

And you look at her.

At her.

Not the lives before.

Not the lives that may come.

Her.

Now.

“Maybe we do.”

 

You never get an answer.

About why you lived and lived.

And about why the cycle seems to have stopped.

And you live and live.

All you know is that you’re with Clarke.

With her.

Present.

Living.

Here.

Now.

 

The first time you live, you’re twenty three.

You’re forty.

And Clarke.

Clarke’s always been alive.

 

Even when she was fated not to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave me some words about my words. I will be most most grateful. Catch me on [tumblr](http://www.sovereignchicken.tumblr.com/) if ya like.


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